Flushed and Disoriented
by YourFairyGodfather
Summary: <html><head></head>"I'm clinging to my last threads of sanity, hoping that you can drive faster than she can figure out the barbeque lighter." Brittany's happy that Kurt's back. Kurt's hoping her enthusiasm doesn't get them all killed. Blaine has no idea what's going on.</html>


Oh man. I have been sitting on this one forever, waiting for BTW to air so that I could tailor it to fit. This piece pulls from both the _Mostly Gay Not Couple_ verse, and is a sort of spiritual successor to _Dazed and Confused._ If you haven't read them, don't worry! All you have to know is that Brittany and Kurt own a duck named Cracker, and that Blaine has met Brittany, and she kinda freaked him out a little bit.

And there's news: I now have a tumblr! Find me at http:/ yourfairygodfather. tumblr. com/ and we can internet-hang.

More news: Next week is my one year anniversary of fanfiction-dom, and I feel like writing something particularly fabulous to commemorate. So I put it to all of you—what would you most like to read? Reply in a review, shoot me a message, do whatever it is you do on tumblr (I'm so technologically inept, it's sad) and let me know.

I don't own Glee. Not even a DVD or anything.

* * *

><p>Oh.<p>

Ok. Yeah.

Yeah, that felt…really, really good, actually.

That time Blaine had maybe sort of implied that Kurt wasn't exactly sexy? Clearly he had been drunk that day. Possibly high off the fumes from the foam cannons. Maybe even concussed—he did do an awful lot of leaping off of furniture, after all, and having such thick hair meant that he occasionally didn't notice when he whacked his head.

Because anyone who could pull off a 'Likes Boys' t-shirt and swirl their tongue on his neck like Kurt was doing?

Holy. Shit. That was sexy.

Blaine's hands were tangled in Kurt's knitted cardigan—and he would have bet _anything_ that it was made for a woman, which was strangely not a disturbing thought at all—pulling him closer as Kurt skimmed his own hands up Blaine's sides before wrapping them around his shoulderblades. He slid closer, settling himself in Blaine's lap and effectively pinning his hips to the bed, and _God_ that was hot—why couldn't he have had A Moment _months_ ago, they could have been doing this all along, and he was totally stealing Kurt's cologne and making his boyfriend (boyfriend!) take him shopping for sheets because these ones were _totally awesome_ and smelled _perfect_, but maybe he should wait and bring that up sometime when Kurt wasn't _undoing the buttons on Blaine's shirt, best day ever, _and—

Kurt's phone buzzed on the nightstand. Kurt's fingers paused, halfway down Blaine's chest. Blaine sighed, letting his head drop back on Kurt's pillow with a thunk.

Stupid cockblocking phone.

Kurt looked at him, definitely at least somewhat amused. "Trust me, you want me to check that," he told Blaine dryly. "Finn's helping out in the shop today, moving tire stacks, and I asked him to text when he and Dad were leaving so that I would know when to start dinner."

Blaine raised an eyebrow. "And by start dinner, you mean…"

"…dab some concealer on my neck and remake the bed, yes," Kurt finished for him, reaching over Blaine for his phone. "Not that Finn knows that, of course. He's unnervingly excited that I finally cracked and agreed to make them hamburgers; you'd think it was Christmas morning or…"

Caught up in the mental image of enormously tall Finn unwrapping hamburgers underneath a Christmas tree—in his imagination there was gleeful dancing and celebratory confetti—Blaine didn't immediately notice Kurt trailing off midsentence.

He did, however, notice the way the blood drained rapidly from Kurt's face as he stared in shock at his phone.

Before he could even fully process what he was seeing, Blaine was sitting up and gripping Kurt by the shoulders. "Kurt?" he asked gently, ducking his head in an attempt to meet Kurt's eyes. When Kurt didn't react, he tried again more insistently. "Kurt, what is it?" he demanded, shaking his boyfriend gently.

The screen on the phone had gone dark; Kurt's painfully tight grasp blocking the keyboard. Blaine frowned. What could possibly—

A horrible though dawned on him. "Is it—did something happen to your dad?" Without waiting for an answer, Blaine scrambled off of the bed, snatching his car keys off the nightstand. "It's ok, it's going to be ok," he promised hurriedly, jamming his feet back into his socks and grabbing his tie off of the floor.

Because a tie was really important in emergency situations. Right. He dropped the tie and began searching for his shoes instead.

Kurt was looking at him, mouth slightly open with surprise. Blaine rushed to reassure him. "I'll drive," he insisted, "wherever you need to go. Do we need to call anyone? Carole? Mercedes?" Blaine could feel himself starting to get slightly worked up and knew he needed to calm the hell down, but he couldn't help it—if anything happened to Burt, Kurt would be devastated. And yeah, maybe it was an open secret that Burt would happily mount Blaine's fuzzy head on the wall at the first signal from Kurt, but that didn't mean Blaine didn't like him.

Y'know, underneath all those layers of pants-wetting terror. Dammit, where the hell was his coat?

"Blaine!"

Blaine's decidedly un-dapper thought train came to a screeching halt as he realized that Kurt had been trying to get his attention for several seconds. Looking up from his half-crouched position in the middle of the room—he'd been trying to button his shirt and pull on his left shoe simulatenously, and it had not been going well—it occurred to him that while Kurt looked pale and slightly shaken, he didn't look particularly traumatized. Nothing like how he would have looked if Burt had had another heart attack.

Kurt confirmed it. "It's not my dad," he said breathlessly, and Blaine felt a mixture of relief and embarrassment wash over him. If Kurt noticed, he was kind enough not to mention it. Instead, he bit his lip worriedly. "It is kind of an emergency, though," he continued.

"So if you could break a couple dozen traffic laws and get me to Brittany's house in less than five minutes, I would really appreciate it."

* * *

><p>Two and a half minutes later Blaine was speeding down the road, keeping an eye out for police cars andor small children, while Kurt sat ramrod-straight in the passenger seat, simultaneously fixing his hair and feverishly pressing buttons on his phone. Blaine knew better than to interrupt when Kurt was in a mood—Kurt almost never actually _swore_, but any irritated hiss invoking more than three designers was a clear indication that they were riding into the Danger Zone—but he couldn't help himself when Kurt started whacking his forehead repeatedly on the window in frustration.

"Kurt. Kurt, stop, you're going to hurt yourself." Kurt dutifully obeyed, but kept his temple pressed to the window. "She's not answering," he complained, voice dull with what Blaine could only assume was worry.

"Why don't you leave her a message?" he suggested. Kurt shot him a look of pure exasperation, an expression his boyfriend had probably perfected by the age of five.

Ha! Boyfriend! Seriously, that was never going to get old.

"Because," Kurt responded slowly, using a delicate tone that Blaine recognized as Kurt's 'I Cannot Believe I Have To Explain This But I'll Try Not To Hurt Your Feelings, Finn' voice. "Brittany is…somewhat unreliable about checking her messages. Or understanding the concept of voice mail, really. She caught pneumonia last fall after sitting in front of her mailbox for six hours, in the rain, waiting for it to start talking." He shook his head, sighing.

"She also has a tendency to skate through life relatively unscathed despite an astounding lack of common sense or any instincts at all regarding self preservation. Probably because the rest of us recognize this and tend to overcompensate for her. But she's alienated Santana somehow, which means her biggest protector is gone. And now that she's off the Cheerios, Coach Sylvester no longer has a personal investment in keeping her from any grievous bodily harm." He closed his eyes, lightly massaging his temples. He was still a little too pale for Blaine's liking.

"So you see why," Kurt continued, "when I get a text inviting me over to burn unfashionable clothing with her and then she _stops answering the phone_, my first instincts are to A.) Panic, and B.) Cling to the fraying threads of my sanity hoping that you can drive faster than she can figure out the safety latch on the barbeque lighter."

Wow. Yeah. Well when he put it like _that_.

Blaine pressed a little harder on the gas pedal. "Should we be calling the fire department or something?" he wondered out loud.

Kurt sighed again. "Lima is a small town," he explained. "Enough false alarms from the same house…"

He trailed off. Blaine got the point. "Better make sure it's an emergency first?"

Kurt nodded. "Take a left up here."

With Kurt navigating—and Blaine driving as fast as he could without running any red lights or wrapping the car around a tree—they managed to make it Brittany's house in under ten minutes. Blaine frowned at the slightly smoking tires as he stepped out of the car, but was relieved to see that they seemed to be the only things that were smoking—the little yellow house Kurt had directed them to was still standing, with no visible flames or obvious signs of destruction.

He gripped Kurt's hand tightly as Kurt pounded on the door. The first time Blaine had ever really spoken to Brittany, his first impression was of someone with an amazingly dry, deadpan sense of humor. When he had slowly realized over the course of the conversation that not only did she mean everything she was saying, but that she was in fact Kurt's ex-girlfriend…

'Became Highly Alarmed' was probably too polite a euphemism for the brain-gasm Blaine had undergone. A less charitable person might have gone with 'Panicked Like a Little Girl'.

Whatever, he never liked David anyway.

In any case, as he and Kurt waited on the front steps, the sound of quick footsteps inside the house growing louder, Blaine knew better than to rely on any preconceived notions as to what could possibly happen next. Brittany was Brittany, and there was just no explaining or predicting how her mind worked.

Still, staring in shock seemed like the most appropriate response when Brittany threw open the door, wearing a glittery 'Happy Birthday!' party hat and clutching a duck under her arm.

* * *

><p>Someday, when they had graduated college and had christened every room in their house with all sorts of crazysweatykinky sex and had gotten their European travel out of the way and Kurt was a household name in fashion and the international tour for Blaine's second record-breaking album had wrapped, Kurt's name was definitely the one they were putting down on their kids' In Case of Emergency forms at school. Because while Blaine stood there, mentally flailing in an undignified manner that would have gotten him hit in the head with a gavel if Wes had seen it, Kurt proceeded to pocket his phone, pull Blaine inside the house, close the door, ease the duck out of Brittany's slightly-too-tight grip, and relocate them all to the kitchen. All without looking the least bit surprised or concerned.<p>

The duck looked at Blaine and quacked.

Yeah. They were totally putting Kurt in charge.

Blaine must have looked as confused as he felt, because Kurt squeezed his shoulder and sat him down at the kitchen table, like he was a little kid in a roomful of breakable objects. Which…wasn't entirely inaccurate: the kitchen counters were covered with glass tumblers, all of them half-filled with coffee or fruit smoothies. A mirror was propped up against the refrigerator, with a basket of cosmetics and hair products resting on the floor beside it. There was a chocolate cake on the table Blaine was at, with several pieces already sliced and sitting on plates.

And over the window, strung up like a banner, was a fuzzy Welcome! mat, presumably from the front porch.

Brittany was standing proudly in front of a pile of clothing, holding a book of matches from Breadsticks that Kurt immediately confiscated. "Britt," he asked carefully, "what is all of this? And why are you wearing a birthday hat?"

Brittany's smile grew even brighter. "It's your surprise Welcome Back party," she explained, pointing to the welcome mat. "They didn't have any hats for that at the store, but I know you like glittery things." She handed Kurt and Blaine matching sparkly hats—Blaine gamely put his on, and tried not to smirk at Kurt's obvious discomfort as his boyfriend settled the cardboard on his carefully coiffed head.

Apparently he failed, or maybe Kurt was just psychic, because Blaine received a suspicious scowl anyways.

Turning back to Brittany, Kurt smiled painfully and gestured around the room with a manicured hand. "Did—did you do all of this yourself?" he asked, and Brittany nodded.

"When you and Santana made my surprise party, you had all of my favorite things," she explained. "So I tried to get yours. Except cars; I asked your dad if I could borrow one, but he started choking on his coffee and Finn's mom told me I should come back later." She shrugged, as if this wasn't anything new.

Kurt nodded slowly. "I see. And did you tell the others about this?" he asked. Brittany shook her head. "If I told them, it wouldn't be a surprise," she admonished. "Well, I told Cracker," she corrected, "because fat ducks are one of your favorite things, so I had to bring him too."

Cracker quacked and sat on Blaine's foot. Blaine…had no idea what to say to that.

Meanwhile, Kurt was looking down at the pile of clothes. "Brittany," he said suddenly, "did you steal everyone's sweaters after Glee today?" He sank down to the floor and began picking through the clothing. Some of the pieces could have conceivably belonged to Brittany, but many of them were obviously from the men's department, and one Blaine definitely recognized as Finn's.

Brittany looked confused. Well, more confused than normal. "To burn," she clarified. "You need an activity at a party, and you're always saying how you want to set everyone's wardrobe on fire and start over." She bit her lip. "Did you mean wardrobe like the furniture? Because I just have a closet."

Kurt was turning slightly pink, and Blaine could tell he was trying not to laugh. "Boo, you can't just take people's clothing and set it on fire. Unless it has technicolor animal print or involves seersucker in a non-ironic fashion," he told her kindly, gesturing for her to join him on the floor. "We need to give these back."

Brittany sat down, and the two of them began separating the shirts and sweaters into piles. Blaine watched them fondly for a moment, before looking around the kitchen again.

Coffee. Fruit smoothies. Hair spray. Glitter. It was like an insane homage to Kurt's baser instincts.

And there was cake. Hmmm.

Just as Blaine was about to pick up a fork, Kurt let out a girlish shriek and grabbed his wrist. "Blaine, don't!" he warned, looking between Blaine and the cake with obvious distaste. Blaine pouted dramatically—yeah, so it probably wasn't organic, but it was _cake_. More than that, it was cake made specifically for them; social etiquette practically mandated that he eat it. Really, he didn't have a choice.

Plus, _cake_.

Meanwhile, Kurt was clearly doing some quick thinking. "Blaine, we should tell her," he said slowly. "I know you're embarrassed about it, but Brittany's a really good secret keeper. Right, Britt?" Brittany nodded happily, missing both Blaine's questioning look and Kurt's response, an expression that unmistakably read 'Contradict me and die, possibly via tire iron'.

Blaine made a mental note to have a will drawn up sometime in the immediate future.

Apparently satisfied that Blaine had gotten the message, Kurt took both of Brittany's hands in his. "Blaine has a very serious medical condition," he explained in an unnaturally solemn tone. "It's an extremely rare allergy to teenage germs. They make him horribly sick, even in small amounts. So, among other things, he's not allowed to eat anything that wasn't prepared by an adult. Because he'd probably die."

….ok, what?

His adorable boyfriend was insane. That was the only explanation. It had been made clear to him by several of Kurt's friends that Brittany most likely wasn't joining the Ivy Leagues anytime soon, but there was no way on earth she could possibly believe that story.

Brittany glanced over at him uneasily. "Is that why he's always wearing his dad's suit?" she whispered to Kurt, gesturing discreetly at Blaine's Dalton uniform.

It took every ounce of self control Blaine possessed to keep his jaw from dropping.

Kurt nodded back. "Exactly. When he wore normal clothes and ate some cookies at Rachel's party, he spent half the night throwing up in my bathroom."

Blaine winced at that one. His memories of that night were somewhat hazy, but he distinctly recalled clutching the sides of the toilet as Kurt rubbed his back, encouraging him to "get all the girl-cooties out of your system before they hit your bloodstream".

Yeah, he was never getting drunk again. Ever. For at least another month or two.

Brittany looked nervous. "Is it contagious?" she asked Kurt, tugging on a strand of hair. "I threw up on Rachel in front of the whole school that week."

Kurt smiled beatifically. "No, baby, it's not contagious," he said reassuringly. "But please feel free to tell that whole story again in exquisite detail. You know I never get tired of hearing it."

Brittany still looked a little concerned. "I didn't mean to kill your boyfriend," she promised earnestly. "But, can he eat it if my mom made the cake, and I just stirred? I wore gloves"—she pointed to a pair of fuzzy purple mittens that were resting by the sink—"and he can borrow my sister's inhaler, just in case."

Kurt considered it. "So your mom made almost all of it?" he confirmed, and Brittany nodded. "I suppose that would be all right, then," he agreed, and Blaine dug into the cake.

It was kind of awesome.

"Here's what we're going to do," Kurt said authoritatively—which was totally hot, incidentally—as he stood up and dusted off his pants. "Britt, start calling everyone, and tell them to meet us at Breadsticks. We'll move the party there, and we can give everyone their clothes back." He smiled beautifully at her, and she smiled back before taking the phone he was holding out to her.

Once she had gotten a hold of Artie—and Kurt and Blaine had listened in long enough to be sure she was giving him the right information—Kurt turned back to Blaine. "Could you help me pack up the cake?" he asked, giving him a tired smile.

Blaine quickly finished the slice he was eating and started gently sliding the other pieces back into the pan. "Will they mind that we're bringing in our own dessert?" he asked curiously, and Kurt shrugged. "Not if we have Santana," he answered. "They're a little afraid of her there."

"Besides," he added, "if they don't let us bring it in, we'll take it home and you can eat it." He reached up, wiping a smudge of frosting off of Blaine's mouth.

Blaine caught Kurt's hand and kissed his fingers. "You don't want to share?" he asked, raising an eyebrow suggestively. Kurt smiled, shaking his head.

"Straight to my hips," he reminded Blaine. Then kissed him, hard.

"Tastes better that way, anyway," he explained with a smile.

Yeah. Blaine's boyfriend? Totally sexy.

"Kurt?" Brittany called from the hall. "Finn wants to talk to you, and he keeps asking about hamburgers."

Blaine's head landed on Kurt's shoulder with a thunk.

Stupid cockblocking phone.


End file.
